


Dance Magic, Dance

by JET_Playin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Draco, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, HP: EWE, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Harry, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Rimming, Top Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 22:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12591808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JET_Playin/pseuds/JET_Playin
Summary: Only one person can make this Halloween night worth Harry's ridiculous costume, and he's not here...





	Dance Magic, Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!!! I know this is late, I couldn't get up the nerve to write a Halloween fic until just before the day. But, I hope you enjoy it, anyway!
> 
> So many, many, _many_ thanks to [bloodyflammable](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyFlammable), for always supporting and encouraging me! Thank you, darling!
> 
> And to [unadulteratedstorycollecter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unadulteratedstorycollector/pseuds/unadulteratedstorycollector), for letting me bounce ideas off your face and beta'ing so quickly! You rock!
> 
> And a huge thank you to everyone who reads, kudos, and/or comments on my fics! You make it so easy to want to keep writing forever! But, seriously, it's 7 a.m.... I should go to bed. So, have this Halloweeny goodness, and I'll see you next time! :*
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to Harry Potter or its characters and locations.

Adjusting his robes for the umpteenth time that evening, Harry pushed through the door and into the smoky club. He didn't understand why he'd let Hermione and Luna talk him into this. He should have insisted on the more knight-like appearance. By now, he was used to having a beard, but the miles of red fabric that passed for dress robes, at the turn of the last millennia, were bunched in ways and places he never imagined possible. He stopped, just inside the door, to pull at the blasted fabric again, taking in the Halloween decorations and costumes displayed throughout the club, as he did.

Fog that could have been dry ice, were this a muggle establishment, flooded the room. It stretched insidious fingers, raking at the shins of werewolves and vampires, fairies and goblins, and partially obscured scattered headstones. Lights flashed, glowing orbs that flickered with frequency seemingly guided by the candor of the music, alternately illuminating the massive room and plunging it into complete, disorienting darkness. Below the orbs, lining the edges of the room, barren trees twisted, their knotted shapes casting eerie shadows across the mass of bodies, writhing in the center of the dancefloor.

It was a nightmare. Not for the first time, he found he didn’t envy the Auror task force assigned to public safety and injury reports. Not to mention Hermione, who had never abandoned her goal of bringing fair treatment to every creature in the wizarding world.

As expected, Harry heard a gasp behind him, and turned to look for Hermione, but found Luna’s amused eyes shining from under raven black ringlets and pale skin, giving her an overall wicked appearance. Fuck, he thought. He would never get used to seeing Luna with dark hair…

Hermione was on her other side, leaning close to the tall, sleek image of Salazar Slytherin, whispering heatedly into his ear. She was clad in lovely, butter yellow robes with a sash, of a slightly darker shade, wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair, extended and lightened, was bundled into three loose bulbs, down her back. Ron pushed at his own, jet-black ponytail, then squeezed Hermione’s shoulder with one slender, ring laden hand, and opened his mouth to respond.

At that moment, however, a raging Veela, complete with an angry, bird-like mask and fists engulfed in flickering flames, sauntered by in a flowing gown that was nearly translucent, and Hermione's face hardened, further.

“Every single one,” she cried. “Does no one in this place care that these creatures have feelings, too?”

Shaking his head, Harry started toward the bar. He was going to need Firewhiskey to make it through this night. He didn’t know if they followed him until Ron slapped a hand to his shoulder, when they reached the bar. The long wooden surface was lined with glowing jack o’ lanterns and packed with more of the offensively costumed partygoers and Harry sighed in relief at Ron’s words.

“We're going to find a table, mate!” he shouted over the thumping bass of whatever music was in fashion this month.

Harry nodded, pointing to indicate he'd bring the drinks round, when he got them. He waited till Ron left, shouting at some poor soul to “make way, you lazy sod,” in an affected, sneering tone, then turned to the bar, gestured for the bartender, and ordered two fingers of Firewhiskey. When the tumbler sat at his elbow, he rattled off the orders for the group. At some point, the Slytherins would be joining them, as well as Neville and Ginny, so he added a round of ale and a bottle of wine, to be delivered a bit later, already certain someone would bitch about his choice. Most likely Draco.

Tossing back half of the smoking liquid in his glass, Harry turned to observe the room, at large. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, in spite of the redundant nature costumes. He wondered, every year, why so many witches and wizards dressed as creatures that actually existed. At least muggles didn’t know they were dressing as real creatures. But then, he recalled all of the pirate and prisoner costumes he’d seen, as a child, and he moved on. People could dress however they liked, he reasoned, watching what looked like Borg wander past. By comparison, Godric Gryffindor seemed a rather tame choice, but Hermione and Luna had been so excited at the idea of a group costume.

He’d wanted the battle leathers and soft leather boots, with chainmail and a replica of the Sword of Gryffindor. Instead, he wore stiff, linen damask — red, the pattern woven from golden silk — bunched and draped in excessive folds that weighed him down with every step. Burgundy, taffeta hose covered his legs and he wore silk slippers on his feet. Generally speaking, he felt like a buffoon. The only saving grace was his hair and beard, both lightened to a rich brown and falling loose and wild, giving him a roguish appearance he almost doubted the actual Gryffindor had.

But, at least he'd been given Gryffindor. Glancing around, he spotted his friends hurrying to a rather large table to the left of the dance floor. Ron was stuck being Salazar Slytherin, although he seemed to be taking it well. On the Knight Bus they’d taken to get here, he had far too much fun developing that snooty, superior attitude that reminded Harry, vividly, of Draco. So much so, that it was probably for the best that they had all decided to arrive separately, to keep their costumes a secret until the very last moment.

Speaking of his snarky, blond partner, Harry though, scanning the crowd. He didn’t know what costume Draco had chosen, but he was relatively sure he’d recognise him. Technically, he didn’t actually know if Draco had arrived, yet. Scratch that; his eyes caught on an angel, with pale hair and long, white robes, and he chuckled. Of course, Draco would dress as something so innocent and pure. No one could fault his sense of irony.

“Hi there, handsome.”

Harry started at the flirtatious voice that rumbled in his ear and, sighing, turned to face the man beside him. Leaning on one arm against the bar, legs crossed at the ankles, stood David Bowie. Or, rather, some poor hopeful dressed as David Bowie. Harry was rather bored of the men who chose to chat him up, hoping to get lucky with The Boy Who Lived. Of course, he didn't look like Harry Potter, tonight, so maybe this bloke was decent.

And it wasn’t a bad costume. This wasn't just David Bowie; this was Jareth, the Goblin King. The epic, 80’s mullet, styled so the tips of his hair had a sort of electrified look. And the outfit was perfect. Ruffled tunic, open to the middle of his chest, a medallion winking from where it lay on smooth, pale skin, and the tight leather waistcoat. Below that, he wore the same grey trousers that did little to hide an impressive package, and heeled, knee-high boots. He even had, draped from one shoulder, the black, high-necked cape.

“Fancy a dance, Godric?” he asked, holding out one gloved hand and drawing Harry's attention back to his face.

The makeup was impeccable, eyebrows flared, cheekbones attractively contoured. Ice chip eyes sparkling with mischievous amusement and more than a little recklessness. He must have used a glamour, there was no way he actually looked that much like David Bowie.

The smirk he flashed invited Harry to comply, but he resisted, ignoring the way his cock twitched in interest. Yes, this man was every inch the charismatic goblin king.

“I—” Harry began, offering an apologetic smile. “I’m flattered, mate, but I’m here with some friends. Just making the bar run.”

Jareth frowned, casting a glance to the bartender as he arrived, bearing a tray laden with glasses.

“I see,” he said, lowering his hand, and Harry thought he saw disappointment flicker across handsome face before he straightened. “Well, I’ll be here, if you change your mind.”

And, with a dramatic swirl of his cape, the blue underside glittering in the shifting light, he turned on one heel and strode into the throng of people. Harry watched him go, a low whistle escaping him as the man’s hips swayed back and forth with the movement. It was a pity, really, that Draco didn't go for films, he thought. Considering how he felt about muggle literature regarding the way they viewed magic, he'd probably love Labyrinth.

“Your drinks, mate?” the bartender called, annoyance clear in his voice. Shaking his head, Harry turned to collect the tray and pay the man, then headed toward the table his friends had chosen.

-

“No, no, no,” Blaise drawled in an exaggerated, American accent and shook his head with mock disappointment. “Look, Miss Quinn, I’m going to have to insist you address me as ‘Mr. President.’”

They were into their third round and everyone was getting into. Ginny kept shaking her head to set the small white pompoms dancing, at the end of each point on her harlequin cap and Blaise straightened his tie, importantly, with increasing frequency. Winking and angling her body toward Blaise, Ginny slowly tossed one leg over the other, light dancing off the smooth, elastic material of the red and black bodysuit she wore.

“Whatever you say, Mr. President,” she purred to the sound of cat calls from everyone but Ron.

Shaking his head, Harry turned to Neville, his eyes drawn to the vivid purple hat, covered in pale yellow stars. Merlin. Frankly, Harry wasn't sure if Neville realised that this particular costume was more muggle than famous wizard, but he decided, for the second time in as many minutes, to let it slide. The polyester robes suited Neville, somehow, and he wasn't here to rain on anyone's parade.

On Neville’s other side, Pansy was buffing the golden bat signal on her chest and laughing at something Hermione was saying while Ron helped the bright green ogre in a dirty tank top pass out the next round of drinks. When they finished, Greg readjusted his horn-like ears, picked up his small, soft toy donkey, and took his seat next to Luna, on the opposite side of the table.

That made everyone, Harry thought. Except—

“Hey,” Ron called, looking around the table with a glass of wine dangling from one hand. “Where's Malfoy?”

Pansy dragged herself away from her costume, tossing unusually fluffy brown hair over her shoulder and slouching forward in her chair. “He went to the bar when we got here, but I haven't seen him since then.”

“I'll go find him,” Harry offered, levering himself to his feet. God, his costume weighed a ton.

“You know what he's wearing?” Pansy asked, lifting one eyebrow in a clear expression of doubt, and Harry laughed.

“You think I could miss him?” Shaking his head, he picked his way around the table. “I saw him earlier, when I was at the bar. He probably got distracted by some pretty dwarf,” he quipped.

“Okay,” she hummed. “Well, tell him to hurry up! I want to dance and it won't be any fun if he isn't at least as pissed as I am.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he laughed, waving a hand as he moved toward the crowd.

At the edge of the dance floor, which was nearly as packed as the floor itself, Harry fisted his hands on his hips, took a deep breath, and began searching the sea of people for pale hair and wings. The wings were easy enough; there had to be at least a dozen angels among the creatures and muggle TV characters.

It was reminiscent of those Where's Wally books Dudley's used to get, after Aunt Petunia realised he would never be a great reader. Not that he ever found Wally, even once.

A flash of light illuminated the writhing bodies, returning Harry's attention to the task at hand, and briefly spotlighting the angel, about halfway toward the other end of the floor. Nodding, Harry began pushing his way toward him.

It was pretty great, he thought, that Draco and his cronies were now part of his circle of friends. Harry really had Ginny to thank for that. He may be Draco's partner in the DMLE, but it was Ginny’s unexpected friendship with Pansy that really brought them all together. Before he knew it, they had come to form one, cohesive group, and, not long after that, everyone started pairing off. Blaise and Gin, Luna and Greg — which never ceased to amaze Harry — Pansy and… whoever she felt like stringing along that week.

Honestly, Harry was waiting for the day she and Draco announced their inevitable nuptials. It was no secret, in Hogwarts or the eight years since, that they would end up together, much as the thought irked Harry. What good would those to do, together? They were already as thick as thieves, and as foolish, although they had yet to break any laws. Which was good. Harry didn't relish the idea of arresting his friend and partner, although it may bring him some pleasure to shoot an Incarcerous at Parkinson.

But, that was it. They'd throw elaborate parties and spend each other's money while bickering about who was more attractive, just like they did, now. What kind of marriage would that be? Draco needed someone who challenged him. If he'd learned anything in the time he'd been an aurora, partnered with Draco Malfoy, it was just how much he thrived with a good challenge.

And, regardless of what Hermione thought, his beliefs on the matter had nothing to do with the fact that Harry frequently caught himself staring at Draco. Sure, he smelled like spring and looked like sex, and he did that little thing with his eyebrows when he was focusing too hard, and all Harry wanted to do was snatch away his quill, pull off those sexy reading glasses, and carry him to—

That was beside the point. The point was… Damn it, where did he go?

Pausing in the middle of the dance floor, Harry turned in a circle, searching for his ang— er, the angel. He groaned, running an agitated hand through his hair.

“Why, hello, again,” a voice whispered in his ear, and Harry felt strong hands slide over his hips and up his chest to wrap around his shoulders. The intimate position brought the man's body flush against Harry's back, groin pressing suggestively against his arse.

Turning his head, he caught sight of artfully tousled, blond hair and his heartbeat kicked up a notch. Jareth. The sexy goblin king from the bar.

Carefully, he prised the hands from his shoulders, and turned to face him. “I'm sorry, your highness,” he teased, smiling. “I'm looking for someone, I don’t have time to—”

“Aren't we all?” he asked, a deep, warm laugh rumbling through his chest, and he threw his head back with the sound.

“Well, yeah,” Harry laughed. “But I mea—”

“Dance with me,” Jareth insisted, interrupting again, and used Harry’s grip on his hands to pull him closer. “Just one dance, Mr. Gryffindor?”

He winked and Harry felt himself caving, slowly surrendering to the pull in his belly. After all, it wasn't like Draco was ever going to dance with him… Either way, the decision must have shown on his face, because Jareth was suddenly grinning, a triumphant, predatory grin, and shuffling closer, hips swaying with the rhythm. Harry settled one hand at his waist, absently stroking the soft cotton trousers and smiled at him.

He marveled, again, at how like David Bowie the man looked. Not that he minded; if he was going to pull, tonight, it might as well be with a rock and roll legend.

The song ended within moments, and another began on the long, soulful wail of a trombone that quickly picked up tempo. Before he could pull away, Jareth was spun around to plaster himself against him, bumping his arse into Harry's steadily swelling cock and rolling his hips.

Harry let him, allowed him to slide one arm up to hook around his neck. He slipped one hand around, spreading his fingers over the flat belly, covered in soft leather and cotton, and breathed in the heady scent of man and the hair potion. He'd lost the cape, at some point, so Harry had an unimpeded view, could see the way his costume accentuated his narrow waist and lean torso. The thin cotton leggings did nothing to hide the delectable shape of his arse and, although Harry could barely feel it through his robes, his hands were another story.

Framing those hips with both hands, Harry spun him back around and leaned closer, to be heard over the music. “You haven't told me your name,” he admonished, brushing his lips over the smooth skin of his jaw. “I can’t keep calling you Jareth, can I?”

The sharp blue eyes widened, a fraction, and his jaw slacked, but he recovered, quickly. Smirking, he looped his arms around Harry's shoulders and resumed the hypnotic swaying. It didn't take much to imagine what those hips could do, under more intimate circumstances, and Harry's mouth watered at the thought.

“You didn't ask,” Jareth teased, tilting his head. “But, sure you can. I wouldn’t mind.”

Harry laughed, only mildly surprised to find the sound low and guttural. “Well then, Jareth, what is your real name?” he asked, planting his feet and pulling those narrow hips closer to his own.

Jareth’s eyes closed and a gasp fell from parted lips before he pressed them into a tight smiled. “What's your name?” he countered, and Harry laughed again.

“I asked first, yo—” Harry broke off as blond hair and ethereal wings caught his attention, from the corner of his eye, and he jolted.

What was he doing?

 _Pulling_ , his mind supplied, rather unhelpfully.

 _No_ , he corrected. He was supposed to be looking for Draco. Sighing, he shook his head, to clear it, and took a deliberate step back. Holding Jareth’s arms to keep him at a reasonable distance, Harry frowned.

“I'm sorry,” he said, cringing when the handsome face fell, from confused to disappointed. “I need to find my friend, excuse me.”

“But, Ha—”

But Harry was already striding toward the flowing robes, one arm outstretched, in a futile gesture. “Draco!” he called, weaving through the crowd after him. “Draco, hang on!”

Finally, the dancers thinned, and Harry could see Draco, clearly. He sat on stool, at the bar, laughing with a man it a red jumpsuit, with horns, a tail, and a cheesy mustache that curled over each cheek. Stamping down the hot surge of jealousy, Harry strode forward and dropped one hand on Draco's shoulder.

“Draco what are you—”

But, the face that turned to look up at him was decidedly _not_ Draco Malfoy. The perplexed hazel eyes that stared at him registered concern, and the confused frown softened, accordingly.

“Are you okay?” she asked, tucking a pale lock of hair behind one ear. The devil beside her dropped a protective arm around her shoulders and Harry snatched his hand away at the hard look he leveled in its direction.

“Shit, I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else.” His hands were sweating and he swiped them nervously down the sides of his robes. “Er, excuse me, I'm sorry. E— enjoy your evening,” he stuttered, backing away from the couple. “Happy Halloween…”

More embarrassed than he'd been in years, Harry turned away and swept his gaze over the room, again. What kind of shit auror was he, that he couldn't even spot his friend in a crowd?

Back to the drawing board, then.

There were plenty of pale-haired costumes about, but then, that didn't really mean anything, did it? Harry, himself, as well as most of his friends, had used glamours on his face and hair to better resemble Godric Gryffindor. It was foolish to assume Draco hadn't done the very same.

But, Harry still believed Draco would aim for irony, so he looked again, this time, ignoring hair colour and distinctive facial features.

There was the bloke dressed like Al Capone, dancing with a sphinx. An American gangster would be ironic, and Draco had steadily become obsessed with muggle culture… but maybe it was a little too cliché, for him. And, to be fair, he was more interested in what muggles considered supernatural.

Maybe that video game character by a table at the back. The one with a staff nearly twice his height… But why would he be at someone else's table? Glancing toward his own table, Harry did a double take.

What was Jareth doing, over by Harry's friends?

The possibility occurred, like a bludger to the gut, and Harry stared. Studying the man, he thought about what he knew; Jareth was a character, a king — if only to a civilization of goblins — in a muggle film. Harry was sure Draco didn't like films, but he set that thought aside. His character was played by a gorgeous, well-known muggle musician who frequently had blond hair, including during the role. And the film, itself, was absolutely a supernatural story. It would definitely appeal to Draco.

Fuck.

Harry felt the blood rush from his face as he remembered the interactions he'd had with Jareth, throughout the evening. He had definitely chatted Harry up, at the bar and, again, when he insisted they dance. Where he pressed against Harry, clung to him, and…

No, not Harry. He chatted up some random bloke dressed as Godric Gryffindor… Suddenly incensed, Harry glared at the messy head of David Bowie. He didn't even know Draco liked blokes, and here he was, trying to pull while Harry looked all over the club for him!

Annoyed, and still uncomfortably turned on, from the dance as well the new understanding that it was actually Draco who did the dancing, Harry made a beeline for the table.

“There ‘e is,” Ron slurred, beaming at Harry as he approached. “Where y’been, ‘Array?”

Jareth — Draco — darted him a glance, then looked away, quickly. _He's realised who he's been throwing himself at, all evening,_ Harry mused. Good.

“Can I speak with you?” Harry growled, ignoring Ron, as well as the stares he was receiving from around the table. “Now.”

“I don't know, Potter, _can_ you?” Draco crossed his arms over his chest with a petulant jut of his chin that, had Harry any remaining doubts, would have assured him this was Draco. “It didn't seem like it.”

Glaring daggers at him, Harry turned and headed toward the door of the club, trusting that Draco would follow him. Outside, he propped himself against the cold wall to wait, his arms and legs crossed in a pose he hoped conveyed his disapproval.

He didn't wait long. Less than two minutes later, Draco stormed through the door, swung his head left, then right when he didn't immediately spot Harry. Coming to stand in front of him, the pointy toes of his boots mere centimetres from the seam of Harry's slippers.

“Oh, now you have time for me, Potter?” he asked, arching one brow in that way he had. The motion that stated, clearer than any words, just how stupid Draco believed Harry was.

Harry _felt_ stupid. He didn't mean to come across that way. He always had time for Draco… And he'd say so, he thought, opening his mouth to speak, but Draco halted the words before he could.

“Did you find your _friend_ , then?” he asked, disdain dripping from every syllable.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Draco!” Harry shouted, standing up straight. He needed his height, in this argument, because Draco was fully capable of making him feel a foot tall and he'd rather that took a little longer to accomplish. “I was looking for you, you twat.”

“So, it's my fault you're too thick to recognise me?” Draco spat.

“And you knew that was me, did you?” Harry asked with a scowl. He wasn't the idiot in this scenario. At least, not the only one. “You’d have me think you wanted to dance with me, like that?”

His eyes narrowed in confusion. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself, at the time. What, exactly is the problem?”

“You!” Harry shouted, gathering steam. “You've always been fucking straight—”

“Straight? Potter, where did you get that—?”

“—and then, suddenly, you're chatting up random men—”

“You aren't random men Potter.” Draco shouted, one hand darting out to stop Harry’s nervous pacing. “Merlin, you actually think I didn't know it was you?”

“—in clubs!” Harry finished, then blinked. “What?”

“What the actual fuck, Potter?” Draco all but shouted. “What do you take me for? You think you could walk in here, dressed like Godric _fucking_ Gryffindor and I wouldn't know, straight away, it was you?” Leaning forward with the force of his shouts, Draco balled a fist and jammed it onto one cocked hip, pushing his cape aside. “I'm an auror, for Merlin’s sake!”

That, more than anything else — even the idea that Draco had been flirting with him, intentionally — gave Harry pause. How had he been so stupid? If he was worth his salt as an auror, he wouldn't be in this mess.

Even so, his mind could only really focus on one thing at a time and, abhorrent as his lapse had been, this new development was more pressing.

“You knew it was me. And you danced with me, anyway?”

“Yes, well,” Draco sniffed. “I've realised my mistake, haven't I?” With that, he turned on his heel — the ridiculously high heel of his ridiculously pointy boots for his ridiculously sexy costume — and strode toward the opening of the alley that hid the club from muggles.

Fuck!

“Draco!” Harry called, rushing to catch up with him. “Draco!”

“Leave me alone, Potter—”

“Stop calling me that. You've used my name for years, why stop now?” He was trying for light but, judging by the way Draco's false, icy blue eyes narrowed, it was likely the wrong route. “Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't realise it was you. And then— Draco, wait.” Grabbing his arm to halt his steps, Harry stopped and dragged a hand through his hair. “I'm sorry. I didn't even know you were gay!”

“Some auror you are,” Draco muttered, crossing his arms, again.

“Why would I assume that?”

“Maybe because I greet you with ‘Hi, handsome’ every morning?”

Harry stared. “That's— I mean, I thought…”

“Or, you might consider that I invite you to lunch every bloody day.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“I laugh at all of your stupid jokes,” he went on, his voice ringing through the empty alley. “I find any excuse to get close to you, I even fucking— ugh! No. You know what? I'm not doing this, ” he shouted.

He turned again, but this time, Harry was ready; With barely a thought, he snatched Draco's hand and jerked him flush against himself. His arms suddenly full of startled blond, Harry ignored the indignant shriek and planted his lips firmly on Draco's, swallowing his gasp.

For a single heartbeat, nothing happened. His eyes opened wide, like a deer, caught in the headlights, Draco stood motionless, the flat of one hand pressed against Harry's chest. Then, exhaling through his nose, he came alive. His lips slid under Harry's, the hand curled in his robes, pulling him closer.

Groaning, low in his throat, Harry snaked his arms around the slim waist, crushing him hard against his chest, and slipped his tongue between those smooth lips. Angling his head, he plunged deeper, thrilling at the burst of flavor, zinging through his senses, the heat coursing through his veins and pooling in his loins.

Cool fingers found Harry's skin, just above his beard, and trailed a tentative path to his hair, before diving in to tangle there. Fuck, he thought dancing with this man was hot, but it was nothing compared to tasting him, feeling him.

Spreading his hands wide over the small of his back, Harry dragged them up, running them over his ribs, feeling the leather waistcoat shift beneath his palms, then back down, swallowing a moan when they wrapped around the globes of Draco's arse.

Content to mold the pliant flesh, for the moment, Harry sank into the kiss, savoring the taste of him. Firewhiskey and something sweet. Stroking his tongue along Draco's, tracing the shape of his teeth, he sought to imprint the memory of this moment in his mind. The sharp tongue, capable of wreaking havoc on Harry's system on a good day, was now moving against his, tasting him, in return; wreaking a new kind of havoc.

A heady sense of power flowed over Harry, urging him to go further, to squeeze tighter, to _take_. And he did, sliding his hands beneath soft cotton, pushing aside the tail of his tunic, until his hands met warm flesh. He growled, flexing his fingers around it.

“Harry,” Draco gasped, wrenching away and burying his face against Harry's neck. Heated lips grazed his collarbone and Harry shuddered. Draco arched against him, pushing his arse firmly into Harry's hands, and moaned, “ _Fuck_!” before latching onto the sensitive skin, just below Harry's ear. “I want you” he whispered, his voice deep and rough, right beside his ear, and Harry couldn't take it anymore.

Wrapping his arms tightly around Draco, he turned on the spot, and apparated them away.

-

For the first time in half a decade, Harry fumbled the landing. In the dark, he stumbled, crashing himself and Draco against a wall.

“Fucking hell, Harry!” Draco scolded, but his words lost their bite when he resumed eagerly lapping at Harry’s neck.

Chuckling, Harry dug for his wand, struggling with the layers of robes, then cursed. “ _Lumos!_ ” he cried, throwing his hand in the vague direction of the sconces that lined the corridor.

Light flooded the room, though, showing Harry just how far he overshot his landing. He’d aimed for the bedroom, _his_ bedroom… on the other side of the corridor from the room they currently occupied. This was the room Teddy used when he stayed overnight.

Squinting in the sudden brightness, Draco looked around, then threw his head back on delighted laughter. One hand moved to wrap around his middle while the other gripped Harry's robes in an effort to maintain balance as the force of the sound rocked Draco forward.

“I certainly hope your aim is better, in… Other areas,” he sniggered.

Immensely thankful that Teddy was spending Halloween with Andromeda, Harry rolled his eyes, took Draco’s hand and dragged him, laughing, from the room. He muttered a _nox_ over his shoulder as they went. Across the corridor, he wrenched his own door open, dragged Draco through it, and backed him swiftly toward the bed.

The laughter finally died, and Draco smirked, walking backwards with a kind of grace Harry would have thought impossible in three-inch heels. But Draco made it look easy — like he did everything — tangling his hands in Harry's hair, and covering his lips, again. Nipping at them with teasing, almost bites, Draco made quick work of removing his cape, then turned his attention to Harry's robes.

It wasn't easy but, eventually, he managed to find the clasp, shoving the stiff fabric aside, and slid his hands over Harry's chest, his breathing harsh from the exertion. Chuckling, Harry fingered the buttons on the smooth leather of the waistcoat, slowly pinching them open and spreading the material. The cotton underneath was easier; he grasped the hem, where he'd already tugged it free of the trousers, and peeled it up, forcing Draco's arms up and away for a beat.

Harry shrugged off his own robes before returning to the kiss, hands stroking pale skin, reverently. Lip to lip, chest to chest, groin to groin. Draco bucked his hips, sliding his cock against Harry's own, aching muscle, and he groaned. Twisting his body to angle his landing, Harry fell to the bed, dragging Draco with him.

Laughing, Draco propped himself on one elbow, amused eyes raking over Harry, rock star hair falling to tickle his chest. A mischievous smile played at the corner of Draco's mouth and he dropped a chaste kiss to one shoulder, lingered, sliding his lips down to Harry's elbow. Lower, to his wrist. He mirrored the path, along Harry's other arm, long, slender fingers tracing the contours of muscle.

Shifting, Draco turned his attention to Harry's chest, finally freeing his hands to touch. As lips trailed over Harry's nipples, tongue flicking out to swirl around the buds, Harry arched into him. He buried one hand in the wild hair, fisting it to press Draco closer nipped at the sensitive peaks, and coasted the other down, over his ribcage, until he reached Draco's hip bone.

“I just can't believe,” Draco murmured, pausing to scrape his teeth over Harry's collarbone. “How fucking _oblivious_ you are.”

Harry laughed, breathlessly. “It's called ‘being respectful,’ you git.”

“Whatever helps you sleep,” he teased, breaking off with a moan when Harry angled his hips up to grind their cocks together.

This was taking entirely too long.

Rearing up, Harry flipped Draco to his back and dragged his hands down, hooking them in the waistband of the soft trousers. In one swift motion, he swept them down to his knees. He barely had time to appreciate the beauty of Draco’s cock, flushed and leaking onto his belly, before he leaned in and engulfed the head.

“Oh, fuck, Harry!” Draco moaned, bowing his back and bucking his hips, his hands flying to Harry’s hair. “Merlin, Salazar, and Circe, yes!”

Smiling around his mouthful, Harry bobbed his head, dipping his tongue past Draco’s foreskin and savoring the taste of him. He pushed down further, palming the cheeks of Draco’s arse, taking as much of his cock as he could. But he wanted more.

Harry pulled off, after pausing to suckle at the head and roll the pungent flavor around in his mouth. He nosed his way down to the cleft of Draco’s arse, but stopped there, unable to go further. His trousers, still bunched around his knees, made it nearly impossible to spread his legs, so Harry redirected his attention there, for a moment. They were tucked into those sexy boots, just below Draco’s knees. Damn. He’d have to remove both… Or—

“Harry, what are you—?” Draco called, but broke off, interrupted by the sound of rending cotton as Harry made his decision and ripped the thin trousers along the seam. “What the fuck was that?” he demanded.

But Harry didn’t answer. He wrapped each hand around one leather-clad shin, spread the slender legs wide, and dropped his weight between them to bury his face in the hot crevice. He inhaled deeply, the sharp citrusy scent that lingered on his skin, before swiping his tongue over the furled ring of muscle.

“Shit!” Draco cried, clenching his arse and setting the wet hole fluttering.

So, Harry did it again, and again, slowly dragging his tongue along Draco's crack, pressing down on every pass, until Draco was writhing beneath him. The dark, musty flavor was making him light-headed, and his lungs burned from holding his breath so that he could keep his mouth on that flesh, keep those mewling cries falling from Draco's lips.

He pulled away to drag in a deep breath, then dove back in, spearing his tongue into Draco and drinking in the resulting cry. For a moment, Harry lost himself, steadfastly ignoring his own, aching cock, fucking his tongue into Draco, alternately lapping and biting at the sweet-smelling skin.

After bringing one hand to his lips, coating it with saliva, Harry sank his teeth into the tender flesh of one cheek and shoved the finger in. Draco’s breath exploded from him, and Harry sucked hard at the flesh between his teeth, rocking his hips into the mattress below, seeking friction.

Draco rocked, as well, little rolling motions that sucked Harry’s finger further into his tight channel, and Harry took that as his que to move. He pulled out, slowly, then shoved back in, twisting his wrist in search of the little bundle of nerves. When he found it, when Draco screamed, he thrust in, again, with two fingers. By the time he added a third, Draco was back to mewling, gasping and tugging at Harry’s hair.

“Please,” he begged. “Harry, please, I—” His chest rose and fell with every gasping breath.

Fuck, he was gorgeous. How much time had Harry wasted, so sure he was—

No, now wasn’t the time. Ducking his head, again, Harry ghosted hot breath against Draco's pulsating cock, mouth watering at the thought of tasting it, again. But the hands in his hair fisted, and Draco yanked his head away.

“Harry,” he cried. “Now, damn it! Fuck me, now!”

Harry laughed and the lust blown eyes narrowed. Before he realised what was happening, Draco closed his legs, locking them around Harry’s shoulders, and used the leverage to flip their positions, his balls falling heavily on Harry’s chin. A triumphant gleam lit his eyes, and he shimmied down Harry’s body, pulling the stupid hose down and off. His own, tattered trousers were still dangling around the top of his boots, but he ignored them, falling on Harry like a starving man.

Harry groaned, straining to keep his hips steady when Draco wrapped a hand around the shaft of his cock, pumping once, twice, before taking the head into his hot mouth. Was every mouth that hot? Harry couldn’t remember. He couldn’t think of anyone else on any given day, let alone while Draco was doing _that_ with his tongue.

“Draco, _god_ , I’m so close.” He was losing the fight against his hips; they juddered, autonomously reaching, pushing deeper into Draco’s mouth.

But, that mouth disappeared. Almost as suddenly as they had come, his mouth and hands were removed, and Draco was climbing back up, settling his arse against Harry’s cock.

“Wouldn’t want you to come first, now would we?” Draco asked, rolling his hips and wrenching moan from Harry when his arse ground against him.

Mindless, Harry grasped Draco’s hips, bucking his hips against his arse, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. “Please, Draco,” he cried. “God, I need you!”

Bracing his hands on Harry’s chest, Draco lifted his hips, turning his head and mumbling the spell he needed. Then he reached one hand behind him, steadied Harry’s cock, and slid it into his hot, slick channel, crying out at the sensation. Harry’s own breathing stilled, his heart racing, blood thundering in his ears as that velvet vise closed around him. He closed his eyes, holding Draco still with sweat-slickened hands, while he reigned in his control, willed back his orgasm.

Above him, Draco whimpered, uncontrollable little thrusts guiding his hips. “Harr— Harry, I have to—”

“God, _yes_!” Harry groaned, helping Draco to lift his weight and drop it, instantly, back onto his cock.

His pale thighs flexing, shoulders hunched, and fists clenching in the sparse hair covering Harry’s chest, Draco moved. He rose and fell, hips pistoning, to take him, and all Harry could do was let him. His hands scrambled for purchase on slick, pumping hips, wandering up over the sleek muscles in Draco’s arms, the smooth planes of his belly. His costume hair bounced with his thrusts, and his cock bobbed in time.

Panting, Harry reached out to wrap his hand around it, pumping his fist, and grinned through his sweaty hair and where it fell in his face, when Draco’s eyes flew to his. He was past gone; something wild and primal stared through him, grunting and rocking his hips faster, into the new source of pleasure.

He fell forward, capturing Harry’s mouth, sucking his lips in, again and again as the motion made proper kissing impossible. “Harry,” he whimpered. “Fuck, I'm so close…”

Planting his feet in the bedding, Harry lifted his hips, stilling Draco's frantic rocking, and slammed his cock home. Then did it again. And again. Draco's hand knocked his aside to stroke himself and Harry let him, wrapping both hands tightly around his arse and pounding into him.

He could feel the pressure building, reaching higher, curling his toes with the force and exploding light behind his eyes. But he kept thrusting, bucking up, fucking through the orgasm until Draco was crying out, going completely rigid as hot spunk shot from the reddened head of his cock to paint Harry's chest.

Spent, Draco slumped forward, knocking the air from his lungs and forcing Harry's softening cock to slide out of his hole. The sound of their panting gasps echoed around the otherwise silent room and Harry could feel consciousness ebbing, whatever strength he had left draining from his limbs.

Still, he tried to move, to shift Draco to his side. He was already going to get an earful, come morning, about wrecking those trousers, the least he could do was ensure he slept comfortably. But it was pointless; the weight on his chest was negligible, anyway, and Draco's breathing was already slowing to the rhythmic pattern of sleep. Sighing, Harry decided to leave him to it.

“Goodnight, handsome,” Draco murmured a moment later, just as Harry’s eyes were falling closed.

Wrapping his arms around the man he never thought he’d have, his own personal Halloween treat, Harry chuckled self-indulgently and allowed sleep to take him, as well.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos give me life and comments validate my existence ❤️ Also, come visit me on Tumblr [@jet_playin](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jet-playin). Thanks for reading!


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